


What's Mine Is Yours To Make Your Own

by lovedbythesun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, I promise!), Sexual Situations, bad language, two non-graphic character deaths (though it's not deathfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8908687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovedbythesun/pseuds/lovedbythesun
Summary: Dean looks after his brother's girl.  Jess looks after him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://little-missmimi.livejournal.com/profile)[little_missmimi](http://little-missmimi.livejournal.com/)  at [](http://spnrarepairs.livejournal.com/profile)[spnrarepairs](http://spnrarepairs.livejournal.com/) .  Big big thanks to [](http://smokeandsong.livejournal.com/profile)[smokeandsong](http://smokeandsong.livejournal.com/) for her beta and support and listening to me squee over it.  This fic took over my brain for two days and wouldn't let go.  I didn't want to stop writing it, and it's possible there may be follow-up pieces to this, as soon as I figure out where it may go. Title is from _Look After You_ by The Fray. I hope you enjoy.

It's almost an hour after Dean has dropped Sam off at his apartment, and he is too late. He's still too pissed that he went back, that Sam's too wrapped up in this fake, smiling bullshit piece of Americana to help him find Dad. Rather than hit the road right away, he stops at one of the college town's many all-night diners for a piss and a coffee and a piece of pie. He's shuffling out the door, hands and the waitress's phone number in his pockets, when he smells the thick scent of burning wood and insulation. It surrounds him, and it's only the bright red and orange and glowing yellow of flame against the night that tells him where the smoke is coming from. His blood nearly freezes in his veins.

The Impala's barely in park before he's out the door, his heavy footfalls drowned out by the low lingering whoop of sirens and the crackle of fire. The building is still burning as he pushes his way through the knot of people standing in front of a makeshift barricade. He calls his brother's name.

“He went back inside.” The voice is soft and quiet, almost inaudible over the din. Dean turns, and there's a petite redhead at his shoulder. He can't make out the color of her eyes in the firelight, but they're wide and bloodshot. “Jess was hurt and he got her out first. He went back in for the rest of us.” She pauses for a shuddering gulp of breath and Dean thinks she's been crying from more than just the smoke. “I was dead asleep. Something happened to the alarms, I don't know why they didn't go off. If Sam hadn't--”

Dean could be gentler as he takes her by the shoulders, stopping her mid-sentence. Yes, Sam's a big damn hero, the fucking idiot. “Is everyone out?”

She nods too fast, eyes impossibly wider. “But he still went back in. I don't know why and I haven't—he hasn't.” _He hasn't come back out again_ goes unspoken.

He should thank her, but instead he's fighting his way forward again, charging the barrier only to be stopped by two pairs of calloused hands. “My brother!” he shouts. “Sam's in there!”

It's minute, but the cops share that look, and it's pity and sadness and bitter bile rises in his throat.

“Son, the building is collapsing. It's not safe.” As if to punch the sentiment home, the upstairs landing of the outdoor stairs crashes to the ground, spraying sparks and embers. Momentarily fazed, the other officer looks back to Dean. “They're doing all they can.”

Dean wants to throw up and his mind races, trying to latch on to something,  _anything_ , to keep the truth at bay. “He has a girlfriend—Jess.”

The first cop nods. “She was taken to Stanford University Medical Center. Her burns weren't too bad, but she may have been attacked before the fire even started.”

His mind is spinning too fast to make the connections now,  _Winchester – girl – attacked – fire_ . It comes to him a couple days later, and he steps out of Jess's hospital room quietly to dial his father with shaking hands.

*

It's a month after the fire, and Jess is still healing. The lines across her belly haven't hardened to shiny scars just yet, still pink and nearly fresh and tender. Each time she moves it's careful, cautious. She wants to go faster, be better  _now_ , but Dean keeps an eye on her. The skin touched by the fire is puckered, along the backs of her arms, her legs, in patches across her back. If the water in her shower is too hot, if she stands too close to the stove for too long, if she doesn't cover up on sunnier days, it feels like she's burning again, and her fingertips have to confirm that it's just flesh, not flame.

What happened that night comes back in starts and flashes. Jess remembers her hands sticky with cookie dough, still not clean even after wiping them on a dishtowel. Sliding the last tray into the oven, she hoped Sam would be back while the batch is warm. She remembers Brady at the door and inviting him in. Though he's more Sam's friend than hers, they had classes together back when Brady was still pre-med. Something about his eyes made her uneasy and then she doesn't remember anymore.

Her parents pay for the little rented house she and Dean stay in, a roomy two-bedroom cottage half a mile from the coast in a small town in Oregon. Jess can't bear to be in Palo Alto, in the Bay Area, in California. Just thinking about Stanford reminds her that Sam is gone. He saved her life and  _he's gone_ and it's like she's been sliced open again and just empty inside. She can't go home, either; home is Labor Day barbeque and Fourth of July fireworks and Christmas and Thanksgiving. Each time, it's a fresh memory of Sam and she just  _can't_ .

Dean being there helps, but it doesn't at the same time. He's just different enough from Sam that every waking moment isn't hard, but she can't help to see the echoes. He cooks for her until she's back on her feet, making the same simple things Sam did when she first met him. His hands share the same tentativeness when he touches her (only to change the dressings she can't reach herself), like he's afraid of his own strength or that she'll crumble like poorly-made porcelain. It gives her pause, makes her breath catch with the familiarity.

He's nearly always there, when she wakes up, before she falls asleep, in the middle of the night with her nightmares. He's there, but he keeps his distance. It's not uncomfortable, not until Jess cries. Then he doesn't know what to do, like he wants to comfort her but something stops him short. In the end, he settles for handing her tissues and a glass of cool water.

Dean hadn't left, not once, until a week ago when she tells him what she remembers. She doesn't even see him pack before he's out the door, promising to call and be back as soon as he can. And he keeps to that, even if the calls are brief, just long enough to say he's okay and make sure she's fine. She fights the urge to ask him when he'll be back. He's not Sam, he's Sam's brother and she shouldn't be so concerned, but she is. With each call, his voice is more and more strained and she wants to ask why but can't let herself do it. Instead, she fulfills her end of the conversation and goes back to keeping her hands busy.

It's 2am and she switches on the kitchen light to find Dean at the table, half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him. He looks wrecked and it's from more than just the alcohol. His eyes are staring off into space, but not really seeing. At least, he's not seeing anything that's in this room. First she thinks it's a trick of the light, but after a second she realizes his face is wet. He's been crying. They're both fixed in the silence for a full minute before Dean blinks and looks up at her.

“It's my fault.” His voice is heavy with the tears he didn't shed. It sounds like he's drowning.

“Dean, it's--”

“ _No_. Dad always told me one thing, _one thing_ , and I fucked it up. 'Look after your brother, Dean. Watch out for Sammy, Dean. He's your brother, he's your responsibility.'” His voice cracks and wavers and, if by some reflex, his hand goes out for the bottle.

Jess moves closer, standing on the other side of the table. She wants to run away, to hide from talking about Sam, thinking about Sam, to stick her head under a pillow and forget the sound of his name. But she isn't a child and she isn't a coward, and if she ran now, what would happen to Dean? “His death is not your fault. You can't protect someone from life, from the random shit that happens every day. If it wasn't the fire, then it could have been a bus. A car accident. A fall down the stairs.”

His knuckles turn white, gripping the whiskey bottle so hard she would swear she could hear the glass straining against the pressure. She tenses, not knowing exactly what to expect but having enough intuition to know it's not good. The skin along her stomach aches with the pulling, but it won't tear and there are no stitches to break now. Watching Dean, it looks like he's having an argument inside his head, the yeses and the nos pitching and tumbling together until his fingers slacken around the neck. “It wasn't life, Jess. And it sure as hell wasn't chance,” he says, voice rumbling low.

She edges even closer, now just one chair between her and Dean. “What do you mean?”

“There's something you gotta know about me. About Sam. Hell, our whole family.”

It's almost as chilling as those four famous words: _we need to talk._ Before she sits down, she goes to the fridge, grabs a couple of bottled waters, and sets one down in front of Dean. He looks at her as if it's a joke. To further her point, she unwinds his fingers from the bottle of Jack, sliding it out of his reach.

“Fair enough.” Dean twists off the plastic cap and takes a long drink before roughly scrubbing at his face. “Your friend Brady wasn't your friend. Hell, I don't know if you or Sam even knew the real guy, cause this morning, I sent the thing that was living in his skin back to Hell.”

She wants to think it's the drinking, that he's a touch delusional on top of drunk and grieving. It would be a logical conclusion. He hadn't let himself really grieve until now and it's likely this week he was away, he'd gone on a bender. Sam always said his dad was a drunk, and alcoholism tended to run in families. “Back to Hell, Dean?”

He snorts, taking another drink of water. “I know you and every other normal Joe Blow American would rather believe in the easy stuff. The fluffy shit. Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, guardian angels. Demons and ghosts, that's all urban legends and religious crap. But it's real. Every nasty, gnarly, venomous baby-eating thing you ever had a nightmare about? It's _real._ ”

“You can't—I mean, Dean, really—”

“You said something about Brady's eyes made you uneasy. Think, Jess, I want you to think real hard. Was it because they turned black?”

Jess's stomach flips over inside her, turns ice cold. Every nightmare that keeps her awake since the fire is the same, and it always features Brady with eyes black as pitch. She tells herself, after she stops screaming and shaking, that it's a trick of the light, it's her mind playing tricks. But now, now she doesn't know. She doesn't have to answer. Dean can read it on her face.

“He was a demon. On their own, they're just a bunch of black smoke, so they need a body to fuck with things. So this demon got into Brady and got close to you. To Sam. And then, he tried to kill you.”

Her mind would race, but it's tripping over this information, hitting it like a parking lot full of speed bumps and pot holes. She can't fully wrap herself around it; it feels more like it's wrapping around her. “What does this have to do with your family? Why would they go after Sam?”

“Twenty-two years ago, to the very day of the fire, my mom died. Fire department said it was an accident, some faulty electrical wiring and Mom was just in the wrong place. Except that fire started in Sam's nursery and it burned hotter and faster than any regular fire could. And before it started, my dad woke up to the sound of her screaming.” Dean isn't just telling the story, he's reliving the night. Before she realizes it, Jess reaches out, covering his hands with hers, turning them over to rub at his palms. It's something she always did for Sam when he was stressed out and ready to throw whatever was bothering him out the window. Hopefully it would do the same for Dean. She couldn't tell right now.

“It was a demon. Not the one that was riding your friend, but I'd bet the farm he's the one pulling the strings. Sam and me, we've spent our whole lives hunting this damn thing, and he just... it follows my brother to college and kills him.” Dean's voice turns bitter, hateful, and Jess can't fault him for that. She knows in the reasonable part of her mind that she should be tossing him out on his ass, getting as far away from this crazy guy as she can. But looking at him, she just... she _trusts_ him.

She interlaces her long fingers with his, giving a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “It's going to be okay, Dean.”

*

It's three months after the fire, and the latest hunt has not gone well. Since he finally started answering John's calls, Dean's been dragged to kingdom come and back. His dad's obsession is no longer just frightening, it's _fanatical_ , borderline clinical and just fucking mental. It's job after job, case after case, and they aren't just hunting down the demon—they're killing everything that dares to cross their path. He feels drained already, run ragged and roughshod and he just wants to be finished every single time. On the long stretches of road, he finds himself thinking about Jess, when he should be sleeping. Even though he steals moments here and there to call, he still worries. Before he left, he taught her to shoot, to line the doors and windows with salt, and stocked up on the holy water. She can handle herself, he knows that, but part of him would rather be there, protecting her. She shouldn't be alone and Sam would never forgive him if something happened to her.

This time, this job, it's a shapeshifter in Missouri. One of the victims has a connection to Sam, and John all but leaps on the case. The creature is a twisted son of a bitch, keen on mind games and the Winchesters are ripe for the picking. Wearing John's face, it nearly convinces Dean that he's the genuine article. It's close, but no cigar, and he gets his ass handed to him for figuring it out. The shifter beats his face in and kicks him around, leaving him with a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and bruised, possibly cracked, ribs. He doesn't get the chance to give the bastard some payback, either; it's John that puts the bullet in its head.

They have to stop now, with Dean needing a few days to get up and running. It's a few days in John's eyes; for Dean, he could take another month and still not be ready. The Impala pulls into the driveway next to the rented cottage just before dinnertime. Having only stopped to piss, he's still bloody, with bruises coming into full bloom and the swelling just starting. For him, it's just another day at the office, but the look on Jess's face just worries him.

“What—what the _hell_ happened?” Her voice has an edge Dean hasn't heard before, flinty and sharp. Though her eyes are on him, her words are aimed at his father.

“It's hunting. The things we fight have a tendency to fight back,” John says, almost nonchalant. It's not meant to be reassuring and it's clear that Jess isn't at all reassured. She glares at the older Winchester as she passes by to the kitchen sink, grabbing a clean dishtowel and wetting it so she can wipe away the caked blood and dirt. Her touch is gentle, considering the fact that she's still glaring daggers at John.

“Usually, if there's two of you, you cover each other's back.” She didn't say it out and out, but her tone certainly implied it: John had left Dean out in the wind.

“I watch my son's back. It's not always so cut and dry out there. It gets messy and hard.” John's dismissive. Dean's heard this before. Same song, different verse, with Jess singing Sam's part. Only now, it's not to defend herself. It's to defend him. “Dean just needs a few days and we'll be out of your hair again.”

She stops mid-stroke, the cool towel resting against his cheek. The terrycloth is rough but soothing and he finds himself leaning into her hand. He can see her eyes though, and he can see the gears turning in the back of her head. He may have not been around Jess that long, but he's watched her enough to know when her resolve is grinding in.

“No,” she says simply. Jess turns away from John, giving him the hard, cold line of her back set in determination while she continues to clean Dean up. “You're not dragging Dean out again. Have you _listened_ to him? He's exhausted. He was exhausted before this, and you only want to give him a few days?”

There's a tense silence before his dad speaks. “Listen, Jess, I'm sure you mean well, but Dean is my son and I'm sure I know exactly what--”

“No.” She tosses the bloodied towel on the table, her mouth set in a hard line. “He needs more than a few days. And he needs them away from you.”

Dean expects his dad to blow up, to yell like he used to at Sam when things got like this. He can see it coming, see John swelling in anger and he wants to flinch away from it. But it's Jess and he can't leave her to take the brunt of it by herself. He starts to speak, but she beats him to the punch.

“I'll give you thirty seconds to get out of my house, then I'm calling the cops. And after you leave, whether it's on your own or in handcuffs, if I see you here, _near_ here, even in the same _town_ without being invited, I will make you regret it so fast your head will do the full-on 360 degree Exorcist twist. Clear?”

The last time someone stood up to John like that, Sam had stormed out with a black-eye and a bus ticket for California. He watches his dad carefully, ready to move Jess out of the way, though he's never seen his dad take a swing at a woman. As John straightens, he doesn't look so much defeated as _resolved_. He nods once, picking his bag up off the table. “I'll call you later, Dean.” And then he's gone.

Jess is buzzing with the tense energy tinged in adrenaline as she retrieves the first aid kit from the hall bathroom. She's muttering to herself, shaking her head, as she lays out gauze and sterile medical tape and opens the bottle of peroxide. Dean puts a hand on either side of her face, stilling her head just enough to gently kiss her forehead.

He won't say thank you. Can't. But it's close enough.

*

It's Sam's birthday, and they're both drunk off their asses. It starts with beer, cheap domestic longnecks to stem the tide of memories that makes both of them want to cry. Instead they're celebrating, because in life, Sam would never make a big deal about his birthday. Before Stanford, there was no money, no time, and he'd told Jess he was pretty sure his dad had forgotten a few times. And with Jess, he was always grateful for the gifts, but uncomfortable at any big party. This year, Jess and Dean will make it a big deal for him.

Dean's just back today, fresh off a hunt and enough rest in him that he doesn't seem about to keel over at any minute. After the shapeshifter, after Jess spent a week fussing over his wounds, he hit the road again. Easier stuff, at least to him – simple salt and burns, cursed objects, werewolves. He established a neat and widening circle out from the house, always staying within half a day's drive of her. He'd said it was for his peace of mind, and she agreed on that, but Jess also felt safer, felt _better,_ knowing he's never that far. That he never wants to _be_ that far from her.

It's been six months, and it's doesn't hurt any less, but it hurts less often. Less and less does every little thing remind her of Sam, and she feels a pang of guilt at the relief it brings. She's not forgetting him—she can _never_ forget him—but she's making peace with it all. Maybe this is what moving on feels like. She isn't going back to Stanford or California, but she's transferred her credits to a small private college the next town over. She'll start in the summer session, with a class or two that she wants but doesn't need for her degree. It's her way of easing back in, of stretching out as far as she can while still keeping one hand on home base.

Tonight, they don't go out. The TV is off, but music's on, Jess's iPod loaded with her own picks and enough Dean-approved tracks before being set on shuffle. She makes dinner, one of Sam's favorites. It's nothing special, fettucine al dente with her grandmother's alfredo sauce and fresh steamed vegetables mixed in. Sam always liked broccoli and snow peas and sometimes asparagus, and he could never keep his fingers out of the sauce when she was cooking.

Dean grins when she brings their plates to the table. “Kid always did like his noodles.”

Casual conversation turns to sharing memories about Sam as dinner plates are traded for dessert. Sam had never been on sweets, but she knows Dean can't resist pie. Especially not apple. The beers are switched for something stronger, with him playing bartender and shuffling tumblers of whiskey between the two of them.

“So we were stuck in Iowa, Dad off doing God knows what, right? Just me and Sammy, in the motel, middle of the summer. And even _he's_ bored cause, I don't know, the public library wasn't up to his discerning standards. So we, uh, we start pranking on each other.” Dean's lit up as he talks, animated, smiling more than she's seen in a while. “And we get into everything. Itching powder, superglue, bleach in the laundry, everything. And I have to admit, I'm letting him think he's winning for a bit.” He pauses for a drink, finishing the glass and he doesn't reach for the bottle. “Of course, he's getting cocky, so I have to end it, and end it _big._ ” He stops there, smirking.

“So what did you do, Dean?” She's fully ensnared in the story, hook, line and sinker and he knows it, which is probably why he waits until she prods him again. “Come on, Dean, finish,” she says, shoving his arm playfully.

“I put Nair in his shampoo.”

Jess is taking a bite as she starts to laugh, the sticky fork colliding with her lips before she sets it back down. Pie filling is smeared over her mouth, but before she can reach for her napkin, Dean's got it. He licks his thumb and carefully steadies his hand against her chin while the rough pad of skin swipes over her mouth. Looking straight into her eyes, he puts the same thumb in his mouth afterward. The room falls silent, the only sound she can hear is the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. It's just picked up the pace.

They're on the couch, passing a bottle of tequila back and forth. Talk has moved from Sam to them. She's past tipsy already, on her way to a full-on comfortable buzz. If Dean's drunk, she can't tell, and from those first few weeks of being near each other, she would know what his drunk looks like. Their knees are the only thing that touch, though he's got his arm along the back of the couch, fingertips close enough to graze her shoulder, to play with the slipping strap of the sundress she's wearing.

“My mom wanted me to go to school back east because she and my grandmother and my great-grandmother all went to this Ivy-League-but-not-Ivy-League women's only college. But Dad went to Stanford, and when I was a kid, he'd always take me to the Stanford-Berkeley game and all the festivities, so I pretty much had my heart set on going there. And I am... probably boring right now.” The self-deprecating remark comes with a sheepish look as she takes the tequila from him and has a long pull from the bottle.

“Nah, you're – it's fine. I don't know, I think it's interesting enough. Growing up like I did, can't say I ever really gave college much--” Jess cuts him off with a kiss. Her hands are on his thighs as she presses her mouth to his, and Dean tastes sour and salty from the tequila and sweet from the pie, and _fuck_ this is better than she had thought it would be. She can tell he's thought about this like she has, the way he relaxes into it, opening his mouth at her prodding licks and nips, his arms sliding behind her and tugging her into his lap. She keeps exploring his mouth until her lungs are burning, and as she breaks away for air, he kisses her jaw and the hollow of her throat before burying his face in her neck. He bites and sucks a line from her ear to her shoulder and it's electric when he works it over in reverse.

They become a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing. She manages to work his shirt off, her nails tracing over the scars on his arms and chest and being replaced by her mouth. He strips off her dress and undoes her bra with the efficient hands of someone who's done it a thousand times before, but with the tenderness that he's always shown her. Pushing him backwards on the couch, she lays over him, grinding her lace-wrapped hips against his denim-covered ones. Jess can feel him getting hard with each move, her rocking slow at first, but falling into a steadily-building rhythm. His breath is all hot panting and little groans in her ear, and the small sounds are making her so wet. She cries out softly in surprise as he slips a finger inside her. Her hips fumble at the contact, losing their rhythm as his thumb finds her clit. It's mid-stroke when he adds another, and she bites his shoulder to keep from shouting.

Jess and Dean switch positions as he jerks his jeans down to his knees and she starts to kick off her panties. They're still hanging from her ankle as he pushes his way inside of her, stretching her, filling her and god yes, she has needed this. She worries that the gentle and tender routine is going to continue and while it's nice, she wants him to realize that she isn't going to break with some rough-handling. But as if he reads her mind, his hands grab her hips with an almost bruising grip, holding her as he fucks her. Her lower back and ass are crushed up against the arm of the couch, pinning her there. Neither of them are able to hold out for very long, Dean waiting until she tightens around him and cries out before he comes.

They lay there a moment, sweaty and satisfied.

*

The morning light is in his eyes, and Dean's too comfortable to move. No motel bed has ever felt like this, adding to his growing hatred of being on the road as of late. He's never wanted to linger in those beds like he does here, the clean scent of soap and sunshine filling his nose even as he's trying not to wake up. Jess dries the sheets and most everything else outside now, in the summer. It's bright enough and warm enough for it, and it saves a bit of electricity. The image is too good not to focus on – Jess standing in her bare feet, blonde curls swept in the breeze, shorts clinging to her hips and her shirt riding up as she reaches out to pin clothes to the line. It has the makings of a damn fine dream.

Eyes closed, his hands drift to the other side of the bed. They find an empty place where he's expecting her warm body, and one eye peeks open. _How late is it_ , he wonders. Dean is almost always up before Jess, ingrained in him from years of being up at the ass crack of dawn to run or clean gear or whatever else Dad thought he needed before going to school. Jess makes it easier to relax, to sleep in. But even then, he's up before she is, grabbing a shower. He doesn't have to worry about using all the hot water anymore. The heater in the little house is newer and better than anything every crap motel he's ever stayed in had. He could probably stand under the water for thirty minutes and there'd still be enough for Jess afterward. Another reason to hate the road, to count the days before he can come back home.

It isn't something he thought he needed, home. He had his family growing up, and he'd always convinced himself that it was enough. Just him and Sam and their dad against the world, and he'd have sworn up and down that he loved it. He did love it, but somehow, it wasn't enough. Maybe it wasn't a change, maybe it had never been enough. Or maybe he was just getting soft.

He starts to wake up more as smells and sounds from the kitchen fill the air. Jess has gotten up to make breakfast, and he smiles. Bacon is cracking and popping in the pan, and he knows she'll make it how he likes it, a little underdone and chewy because she likes it that way too. There's coffee brewing and he can already imagine her mug of tea on the counter as she pours out two glasses of orange juice. Something warm and bready is cooking too, but he can't put his finger on what it is. No matter what, even if she burned it, he knows it would be good. His diet is pretty much the same, minus the extra helpings of grease. Home cooking tastes just as delicious as he imagined it would as a kid, and right now, he'd take a plate of Jess's runny eggs and blackened toast over any diner-made short stack any day.

Kicking the sheets off, Dean gets up to join her in the kitchen, to see if she needs help and to steal things before they make it to the plate.

If soft is this, he would gladly take it.

*

It's a year since Sam died and, for once, Dean's glad Jess isn't home. She left for Lake Tahoe yesterday, won't be back until Sunday, for her cousin's wedding. He hates to think of what'll happen then, but better she come back to nothing than be caught in this.

He thinks he's letting his dad in for a beer. There isn't a reason to suspect anything otherwise as they drink and shoot the shit at the little round kitchen table. It isn't until an offhand remark “John” tosses out that Dean knows. That is not his dad.

The next hour is excruciating and not only physically. The demon, the Yellow-Eyed Demon pins him to the wall with sheer power. Dean can't move an inch, can barely breathe.

“You know, I was counting on Sammy. I really thought he had the right stuff,” it says, smiling at him with John's face and unearthly eyes. “ _He_ wasn't supposed to die in that fire.”

He's hinting at Jess and Dean wants to pound its face in. “Maybe you should keep a tighter leash on your little firebugs. I'd say you should have a talk with him, but oh. I already sent him downstairs.”

It snorts and steps closer, too close, to him. “Maybe you should have done like Daddy told you and _watched out for your little brother_.” It's a stab of guilt, reopening that wound like fresh as he hears this in John's voice. “I thought you cared more than that, Dean. Or maybe...” It pauses, eying him like a kid eyes a bug he's about to pull the wings off of. “Maybe you just wanted a shot at the blonde yourself.”

His anger is enough fuel for him to rock against the wall and curl a hand into a fist, but he's still stuck. The demon laughs.

“Do you really think she loves you?”

The taunting continues until Dean can't find a voice to argue back anymore. He's spent and done and god, he wants to see Jess one last time, but he isn't about to beg. He stops responding and the demon gets bored.

Dean's been shot before, and that was painful as hell, but it doesn't compare to this, to being sliced open without a blade. With just the force of this bastard's mind. He can't look down at the blood, but he can feel it soaking into his shirt, running down his legs. He knows what will inevitably come next, and the thought of burning to death scares the shit out of him. His feet leave the floor, his back sliding up the wall when there's a shot.

The demon and his dad jerk stiffly, and electricity sparks out from the neat bullet hole in his forehead. Yellow and orange light flash under his skin, and then John and Dean both fall to the floor. Behind him, Dean can see a slender figure in silhouette standing in the empty doorway. Jess steps forward into the light cautiously, staring down at the stilled body on the ground. John's not moving, not even breathing, and as she stoops down to check for a pulse, he can see the old revolver in her hand.

“How did you – why are you—” Dean's fumbling for the words, shock setting in. She moves away from the body and goes to him, easing him into a more comfortable position.

“I saw the signs, the demon. There's a pattern of omens that turn up wherever he goes and I knew he was in town,” she says, her hands gently peeling back the hem of his t-shirt and inspecting the wound underneath. He tries to lean up to see too, but she pushes his head back down. “This is nothing. I could probably stitch it up myself, but I failed sewing in Home Ec.” He knows her well enough to see she's bluffing. But she isn't panicked, so he'll take it as a sign.

“How did you know?”

She's grabbing clean dishtowels as she talks. “It's amazing what you find on the internet if you poke around enough. This guy in Nebraska, calls himself 'Dr. Badass', total computer whiz. I had dug through records, found something and he... he gives me everything I need to watch out for.”

_When did you have time for that?_ He doesn't say it, but he knows the thought is on his face.

“I wasn't always in class over the summer. I just, I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure. And then I saw it and I knew if I told you, we'd leave.” She applies pressure to his stomach, trying to stop the flow of blood. “It would just start all over again.”

But now it's finished. Dean's head is spinning from blood loss and information overload. She did this, she did this on her own, and she did it for him. For _them._

“I love you,” he says, reaching up to touch her face and smearing blood across her cheek.

She smiles down at him. “I hope you're not just saying that because you think you're dying.”

“Hey, could I – I'm trying to be—”

“I know.” She cuts him off. “I love you too, Dean.”


End file.
